The Morning of July 5th Saga: My Heart Will (Not) Go On
by Into-Dorkness
Summary: It's the morning of July 5th, and Alfred F. Jones finds himself stranded in the middle of the ocean with nothing but a solitary McDonald's chip for company. Part One of 'The Morning of July 5th Saga': Every time America celebrates his independence, he wakes up the next day in a compromising position after a hilarious turn of events.
1. Chapter 1

So one of my best friends and fellow fanfic writer **TrebleTwenty** (_go check her out_) came up with the idea of this Saga: Every time America celebrates his independence on July 4th, he wakes up the following day with an insane hangover and in some kind of compromising position. This is the first in the series (purely because I finished this first), and we have SO many hilarious ideas (_if i do say so myself_) for this collection (_just you wait..._). Enjoy m'lovelies!

* * *

Alfred F. Jones was woken by an intense burning on his eyelids. As the light behind his eyes turned from black to orange, he became aware of the bacon-sizzling heat that was ravishing his entire body. Alfred cracked an eye open, only to be assaulted by the intense glare from his glasses lens. He hissed and clamped his eyes shut again, grumbling something about "kicking the Sun's ass with a dose of freedom and liberty" when a thought suddenly occurred to him –

"Where the hell am I anyway?" he murmured, draping his forearm across his brow to shield his sensitive blue eyes. Still blind, Alfred attempted to prop himself up on his other elbow, only to cause a violent jerk, accompanied by loud splashing sounds as the elbow sank into something soft and rubbery.

"What the hell man?!" he shouted as his eyes instinctively snapped open, and Alfred was met with an image of the ocean. A vast, never-ending body of water that he recognised as the Atlantic – he could never forget it, half of his country was surrounded by it after all (never so literally as now mind you).

"Man this picture is freaking beautif- WOAH WHAT THE HOLY HELL?" he was now aware of the gentle rhythm of waves all around him; water lapping at the bright orange rubber dinghy that he was aboard, still slightly swaying from the elbow incident.

"Dude, this better be some of that 4D cinema shit Japan was going on about,"

Alfred frantically whipped his head around, only to be met with more unending sea. He froze in the boat, just staring at the horizon as if willing it to become a crowded row of cinema seats. It took him a long time to take in all of this information (nothing unusual there):

He was lying down…

…In a rubber dinghy (bright orange no less)…

…In the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

When Alfred had finally adjusted (as much as one can adjust to such a preposterous turn of events), he turned back to the dingy and –after some stumbling - sat cross-legged on the floor of his new home. He buried his head in his hands and attempted to recollect the actions that had led to his current situa-

July 4th.

"Why am I even surprised?" Alfred groaned as vague images began to resurface in his mind: a kick-ass party, his fellow nations partying it up like it was 1969, being led into a rubber dinghy… wait a sec. He focused on that memory so hard that he began to exert a high pitched whining sound akin to that of a dying ostrich but for the life of him, Alfred F. Jones simply COULD NOT remember who had led him into this orange abomination. He sighed tiredly, only to become acutely aware that he was incredibly thirsty. He scanned the dinghy in vain, only to realise the state of his own appearance when his eyes landed on the crumpled suit-pants his crossed legs were clad in. Alfred's shirt was unbuttoned nearly all the way down (an image of France's pervy face immediately assaulted his mind) and stained with some kind of liquor. His tie hung over his right shoulder and there was no evidence of footwear to be seen. This had once been a majestic azure suit, complimented by a glittery red tie (Alfred had thought it was a bit girly at first, until he realised he totally rocked it) but now it was a dishevelled mess of red, white and blue ("a bit like Arthur's flag, ooooooh snap!" Alfred thought to himself).

"Woah, must've been one hell of a party – well obviously it was because I was the host, yeah!" he croaked out a laugh but then caught himself, realising that he was (already) beginning to sound insane(r) and that he really needed a drink. He started fantasising about McDonald's milkshake when he veered off into imaging how great a cheeseburger would be right now. As he started to drool, Alfred was aware of just how dire his situation was.

There was no food or drink in this orange monstrosity. Nutrition isn't usually a problem for nations as they can't die unless they're de-nationed (don't question me about Prussia's existence – he claims to be the personification of 'awesome' now), however it's well known that Alfred F. Jones, the United States of America, has a monstrous appetite. This knowledge alone was threatening to send Alfred over the rails, and just as he was about to throw his head back and scream at the clouds, his eye caught something at the other end of the boat (how he hadn't noticed it before can be put down to his narcissistic tendencies). Something small and thin and yellow, a tiny beacon of hope in this liquid wasteland…

A McDonald's chip.

* * *

"Day 6 – me and Alfred Jr. are still sailing the open sea," Alfred announced as he leaned over the side of the rubber dinghy. In the initial moments of discovering the McDonald's chip, he was going to stuff the tiny morsel between his teeth and be done with it. However, Alfred quickly realised that this was the only scrap of food left in his life and that he would savour it until he absolutely needed it - already coming close oh so many times to devouring the little fry. He cupped it in his hands now like an injured bird and looked down fondly at his little potato-friend. Alfred had become quite fond of the chip, even going so far to name 'him' 'Alfred Jr.'. At first Alfred was worried about the affection he had developed for Alfred Jr., but as the days past and he found himself getting lonelier, he had embraced the idea of having a McDonald's fry as a son. In fact the idea of eating little Alfie made his stomach wrench from the potential loss of his only companion.

"I'll never eat you, Alfie..." Alfred whispered into his hand, rubbing his cheek softly against the potato-morsel. The chip was silent.

As the days had rolled past, Alfred had become more and more uncomfortable aboard the dinghy. He now wore his shirt around his waist and his trousers were rolled up to his knees. He had decided to fasten his tie around his forehead to absorb his mountains of sweat, but really he thought it made him look more like Rambo –too proud to admit the fact that Rambo's bandana wasn't glittery.

"There's just no way this," he rambled as he gestured to his body "-could ever not look totally sexy". The fact of the matter was that Alfred was losing it: lack of water &amp; food and real company (he would never admit that Alfred Jr. wasn't real company though, fully convincing himself that he was a living, breathing person) and his beloved PSP was taking its toll on the young nation. Nobody knew the effects of malnutrition on a nation (Russia had lived solely on vodka for 4 months once and he was fine, but nobody else had bothered to try), but it was becoming evident that it effects them. At least, it was affecting Alfred - the possibility of one day filling his aching stomach with a rack of barbeque ribs was too much for him. Before he knew what he was doing, he snapped back into reality to discover the horror: He was licking Alfred Jr. from the palm of his dry hands. Alfred screeched.

"Alfred Jr.! Alfie, I'm s-so sorry! Please forgive me!" he screamed as he flung himself backwards onto his ass to the other end of the boat. Alfred Jr. had fallen to the floor in the commotion, still and unresponsive.

"I'd never hurt you little dude! I-it was an accident, I swear-"cut off by a sob, Alfred curled into the foetal position, shaking and murmuring about "never hurting his potato-child… I'm such a terrible father…" and cried himself to sleep.

* * *

"Day… 7? Is it 7, Alfie?" Alfred asked the fry, which had now been propped upright against the edge of the dinghy by a tentative and apologetic Alfred. The nation was waiting for an answer from Alfred Jr., but his son was being his usual silent self.

"Not feeling chatty today buddy? I understand…" Alfred said sadly as he remembered the events from the previous day. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his once immaculate trousers, frowning as his fingers graced a piece of paper. Alfred fished it out and eyed the crumpled paper suspiciously, slowing turning over the folds. He held the paper away from him to get a look at the whole thing when his face lit up with recognition.

"Dude, this is me! It's my map!" Alfred said excitedly. He now held a map of the United States of America – something he always carried around in case anyone questioned how big he was (The nation gave a childish snicker when he remembered this). He gazed at it longingly now, tracing the pad of his index finger along his coast from Maine to Miami, then around to New Orleans and onto Los Angeles, up to Seattle, circling Alaska lovingly with the thumb of his free hand.

"Yo Alfie, Daddy's gonna give you a little geography lesson," The nation got up and collected the morsel between his thumb and index finger, not looking directly at it lest he get tempted to eat his only friend again. Alfred sat in the dinghy, placed the fry gently on his lap and opened the map again.

"This is where I became a man, son." The nation recalled fondly with his finger on Philadelphia, relaying the memory of when he adopted the Declaration of Independence to Alfred Jr., who was stunned into silence.

When Alfred F. Jones had finished a full account of his nation's history, he tried to estimate where exactly he was in the Atlantic.

"Judging by the direction of the wind, I'd say that we're well on my way to the Western Sahara…" however, Alfred being Alfred, only carried a map of HIS country, so the coast of Africa wasn't visible on his map. He took one last look at where the sea met the sky and decided to call it a day.

* * *

Pirates.

All Alfred F. Jones could think about was pirates. He was beginning to fancy himself as one too.

"If limey old Arthur can be a pirate then there's no doubt that I can too!" Alfred babbled to Alfred Jr., who sat in his usual place against the side of the dingy. "We'll take what we want, dude! Do what we want! We'll sail the seven seas – as soon as we figure a way out of this one – and then I'll be remembered as the ruthless delinquent! 'Captain Alfred F. Jones', with his first mate: Alfred Jr.! On the S.S. Liberty! Hahahaha!" At this point Alfred was untying the shirt from around his waist and morphing it into a flag of sorts, but upon realising there was no mast for his flag he stood up as straight as possible in an attempt to BECOME a flag pole; holding his shirt out so the wind would catch it. After a few minutes of standing like this, the nation began to feel numb and a bit stupid, so he collapsed back into the rubber boat. Thoroughly disheartened that he couldn't play pirate, stories that Arthur had told him as a child began to float across his memory – tales of theft, murder, riches and women (granted, Francis had filled out the details of the latter as there was no way Arthur would tell that kind of stuff to a SMALL CHILD). Alfred had always envied Arthur's adventures: to be able to do whatever he wanted and for it to be socially acceptable (not that this was a major concern for Alfred, who did whatever the fuck he wanted anyway 'cause #yolo) was something he had never been a part of. Whenever he did something childish or conceited, he was always scolded by someone, whether it was another nation or his boss.

"That's all gonna change now, bro," Alfred gestured vaguely towards where his fry-friend was perched.

"As of today, I am a free man! No boss, no 'responsibilities', no stupid Arthur telling me what to do – hell yeah!" He didn't know why it had taken him so long to realise it – all of Alfred's childishness, all of his pent-up madness could be unleashed and there was no one around to judge him or take him away in a straitjacket (which they definitely would if they could see him). After all the years of going to World Meetings and keeping up with political relations, Alfred F. Jones finally felt like the free man he had always claimed to be.

And his first act as a free man was to put his shirt back on.


	2. Chapter 2

The bacon tasted like sex on his tongue. It's bitter smokiness was threatening to give Alfred F. Jones a foodgasm as drool escaped from the corner of his lips. A moan formed in his throat as he chewed languidly on the strip of cured meat...

Abruptly the savoury flavour was replaced by a strong, plasticky taste. The sound of his chewing became raking and squeaky as Alfred opened his eyes and-

"Aw, shit!" the American cried. He now saw that he was in fact not chewing on a holy slice of bacon, but on the rubber dinghy that was currently keeping him afloat. A thread of saliva still connected the two of them and he wiped it away furiously. Alfred inspected the damage; a tiny tear had formed where his teeth had been gnawing lovingly on the orange inflatable. He reckoned it could have been worse, but knew well enough that his rubber salvation wasn't going to last for very long. 72 hours tops. Alfred decided it was time to be resourceful. He tore a strip from the bottom of his map, cringing as Texas and New Mexico were ripped away (he swore he could physically feel the separation). The American then ran the map-piece on his tongue (again, he felt wrong doing this to a part of himself) and smoothed the strip over the tear in the dinghy. It was surprisingly effective, and Alfred was incredibly (ridiculously) proud of his ingenuity and quick thinking.

"Haha!" he gloated, jabbing a finger at the now sealed hole, "It's gonna take way more than a stupid bacon-sex-dream to sink the United States of America! Did you see that, Alfred Jr.? Your daddy freaking owned that shit!" He was now staring at his McDonald's fry-friend with a goofy grin on his face, waiting for praise like a puppy who had just pooped in the yard for the first time. The chip sat silently.

"Oh Alfie, you're speechless..." the American whimpered.

* * *

"You know, that whole situation reminded me of a film Arthur once made me watch. 'Said it was an 'important part of British and cinematic history', yadda yadda. What was it called...?" Alfred once again sat cross-legged in the dinghy, trying to squeeze distant memories out of his deep-fried brain.

"It was in '97... Leonardo DiCaprio... sexy... I wonder if he has an Oscar yet... oh, oh! Titanic!" The American concluded excitedly. "There was this totally beautiful song by Celine Dion in it too. Obviously I'd never admit THAT to pasty-face, but I had that song on repeat for like, two months, dude. You can't tell ANYONE that though, ok little bro?" He asked the fry, which in return offered silence.

"That's my boy" Alfred grinned proudly at his chip-child. "C'mon, Alfie! Sing with me!" the nation suddenly demanded, throwing his sun-kissed arms in the air. He reached over to the morsel and gripped it in both hands, then leaned out from the front of the dingy on his elbows.

"YOOUUU'RE HEEEEEEERE, THERE'S NOOOOTHING I FEAR..." the deranged American cried, clutching Alfred Jr. in his outstretched arms, gazing at him lovingly as he sang the ballad.

Alfred pulled the chip close to his chest affectionately as he sang "WE'LL STAAAAAY FOREEEEVER THIS WAAAY", his eyes closed as he poured all of his affection into his dry-throated rendition of the song.

"AND MY HEEEERO WILL GO OOON AAAAAND OOOOOOOON..."

He belted out the final word, thrusting his arms wide in a fit of passion and ecstasy, only for his voice to contort into a screech as Alfred Jr. flew from his fingers and into the water. The chip bobbed on the surface for a second but then swiftly began to sink. Alfred watched the horrific scene play out in slow-motion, diving in after his potato-son with a ragged splash. The nation held his breath and glided beneath the surface, towards where the McDonald's fry was suspended in the water. Alfred reached the chip, enveloping it in his hands. The American swam back up to the surface clasping the morsel, frantically spluttering and panting. Alfred pulled himself back up into the dinghy roughly, one hand still clenched around the chip. He knelt with both hands on his knees, then slowly unfurled his fingers.

"Alfie, no..." The nation whispered meekly as he stared down at the soggy remains of his son. "No... NO!" Alfred screamed defiantly, placing his fingertips onto the chip in an attempt to perform CPR. When this inevitably failed, the American placed his mouth over the fry in a valiant effort to execute mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

After five solid minutes of blowing air onto the fry, Alfred finally sat back with the most mortified and forlorn expression on his face.

"I'm so sorry, Alfred Jr. ... I knew Celine Dion wasn't your thing... so sorry..." he whispered tearfully into the palm of his hand where the mushy chip rested.

* * *

Alfred Jr. now retired in a makeshift coffin that Alfred had dejectedly crafted from the remains of his map. The nation now sat limply at one end of the dinghy, the paper box at the other. Alfred hadn't said a word since the incident - 'What's the point in talking when there's nobody left to listen to me?' he reflected.

"I'm a terrible father..." The American finally croaked. Once again he was gazing into the horizon, willing deep philosophical thoughts to spring into his mind... Wait, what was that speck in the distance?

"What the...?"

More black specks were appearing on the horizon and Alfred felt a spark of hope alight in his stomach.

"Could it be...?" he trailed off as he put an arm over the side of the dinghy and started to paddle the boat forward. The spots were slowly becoming shapes now, outlines of figures. Of people.

"HallelujahpraisetheLord" Alfred gasped as he stuck his other arm over the boat, pushing furiously towards salvation. He could make out silhouettes now, tall people, short people...

No. Not people at all.

His fellow nations stood side-by-side at the edge of the body of water, either with their arms crossed or in their pockets. All of the people who had attended his birthday (the whole world, basically) were waiting for him in silence as the American slowly closed the distance between them. His rubber orange dinghy had deflated a lot over the past 24 hours, making his progress painfully slow. Alfred didn't care; he was just too relieved to have found civilisation again. Alfred could distinguish faces now: Ludwig, Roderich and Berwald glared at him like he was puppy that had pooped on the carpet. Gilbert, Feliks and Mathias sneered. Toris, Feliciano, Tino and his brother Mathew looked at him with soft, pitiful stares. Francis had his head in his hand, visibly shamed. Ivan was smiling.

The rubber dinghy finally scraped onto the shore and Alfred stumbled out, straight towards Arthur. To Alfred's surprise, the Briton didn't share the same embarrassed expression as the frog. Instead, his brows were furrowed into a look of utter concern for the well being of his former colony. Alfred slammed into his former guardian, ignoring the gasps from his fellow nations (he would live to regret this public display of affection, he just didn't care at that moment).

"A-Arthur my son by little bro my Alfred Jr. he, he, he drowned and it's all my all my fault-" cut off by a vicious sob, the American clamped his arms fiercely around the Briton and weeped into his shirt.

"Not so easy being a big brother, is it Alfred...?" Arthur replied quietly (even though he had no idea what the bloody hell he was going on about), gently unwrapping the American's arms from his own torso.

'Why on Earth does he have his tie around his head...?' Arthur pondered.

Alfred sniffed, shaking with relief. "But, dude, how did I end up in the Atlantic Ocean?" the American continue to babble.

Everyone who wasn't Alfred glanced sideways at each other. Kiku stepped forward nervously, cutting off Alfred's inane ramblings.

"I am so sorry, America-san... This is an indoor beach."

Alfred stared blankly at the small nation, unable to comprehend what he'd just been informed of. Everyone flinched as the American suddenly barked his obnoxious laugh. He cut off a little too sharply, causing unease in his friends - had he finally cracked?

"Dude, you're not joking."

"No, I am not" Kiku said matter-of-factly. "But if it is any consolation, it is the World's LARGEST indoor beach"

The American was silent, and nobody wanted to point out Alfred's obvious stupidity. Well, almost nobody.

"How the bloody hell did you mistake the Atlantic Ocean for an indoor swimming pool?" Arthur asked incredulously.

In response, Alfred F. Jones sat down and cried.

* * *

He refused to talk to anyone about the 'incident' apart from Arthur, who insisted he had the right to know what had transpired to get him so worked up. The Briton offered to buy Alfred lunch at McDonald's - knowing that it was his favourite - and Alfred had reluctantly agreed. Alfred had naturally ordered a Big Mac, while Arthur just had a cup of their 'crap tea', as he called it. While the American munched on his cheeseburger euphorically, Arthur recounted the events of July 4th.

"I downed HOW many shots?!" the American gasped with a mouthful of burger.

"God knows; you were a bleedin' machine. You almost put Russia to shame. Almost..."

The Briton relayed the entire night to Alfred: trying to set off fireworks on the back of a pickup truck; yelling the lyrics of 'America, the Beautiful' with a certain group of Nordics; having France unbutton his shirt all the way down until Arthur had intervened ('So it WAS the frog,' Alfred glowered). It really had been a kick-ass party, and Alfred was disheartened that he couldn't remember it all. The Brit's tone became grim when he described the days they had spent searching for their host.

"Now, tell me, what the bloody hell happened to you?" Arthur urged when he had finished his own story. Alfred sighed deeply and spilled all.

"You thought... A McDonald's chip... Was your son..." Arthur was having problems processing this particular aspect of the tale. He had suppressed a giggle when Alfred described his valiant attempts at reviving the potato-morsel with CPR, fearing Alfred might break his nose. Arthur deduced that the American must have been experiencing some kind of hallucination in order to have convinced himself that he was stranded in the ocean.

"It sounds like you had a ruddy traumatic journey," the Briton concluded in a strained voice as he suppressed the laughter that bubbled inside of him. He pitied America, he truly did, but the ridiculousness of it all was threatening to send him ROFL. While Arthur struggled with his hysterical turmoil, America had finished his burger and tentatively - TENTATIVELY - reached towards his McDonald's fries. Seeing such a dramatic disturbance in Alfred's eating habits shook the Brit.

"Alfred, I understand if you don't want to eat those chips..." Arthur abruptly cut off when the American shoved a fistful of fries into his gob.

"I'm over it," Alfred munched with a grin.


End file.
